


Mostly Void, Partially Funn

by arboreal_overlords



Category: Welcome to Night Vale, Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Eric is Carlos, Gen, Inspired by Welcome to Night Vale, M/M, Other, Rudyard is Cecil, Slightly Supernatural Piffling Vale, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 01:52:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15619863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arboreal_overlords/pseuds/arboreal_overlords
Summary: “Always remember that time flies. It flies behind you. It flies towards you. It descends slowly upon you, extinguishing your life force. Really, look out for that sundial. It crushed Stanley Carmichael last week. Welcome to Piffling Vale.”Or, the one where Antigone and Rudyard co-run the Piffling Vale Radio, Chapman is a scientist with mysterious motives, and Georgie is the sole surviving radio intern who hunts librarians in her free time.





	Mostly Void, Partially Funn

**Author's Note:**

> I know I’m supposed to be finishing the final chapter of "Georgie, Attack!" but I couldn’t resist the time-honored tradition of procrastinating from the thing I originally created to procrastinate with by turning to a THIRD thing. You’re welcome.

 

  
  


_ A friendly island community where the sun shines, the angry mobs chatter, and the uranium mine hums at night as we all attempt to sleep. Welcome to Piffling Vale. _

 

X

Yes, hello listeners, Rudyard Funn here. I have a few announcements to go through before our regularly and meticulously scheduled program. As we say here at Piffling FM, we get the news on the radio in your ears on time.  

 

The Mayor’s office has been overrun with paperwork this week because of the upcoming sailing competition on Thursday, and Mayor Desmond has subsequently transformed into a desk. 

 

No — sorry — I read that wrong. The sailing competition will be held this upcoming  _ Tuesday, _ not Thursday, so pop that in your diaries. Please everyone wear a life jacket, and perhaps communicate your requests verbally to the Mayor for the next few days. Speak  _ quietly.  _

 

Have you recently experienced the creeping sensation that someone is in the room with you? Does your shadow refuse to move in sync with your own actions? Have your neighbors approached you with trepidation at the shapes they see, moving slowly and with terrifying purpose, behind your curtains at night? If you have, please contact Agatha Doyle, she has some concerns about her last batch of candies. Also, sherbet dib dabs are buy one, get one free!

 

Finally, I’d like to announce a new addition to our staff! Madeline has agreed to join us as the station accountant. All of our previous accountants have mysteriously disappeared, but they were all human, so I have great faith that Madeline will demonstrate more promising agility.

_ [faint squeaking noises]  _

 

Now look here, of course I told you about that before, Madeline, let’s not cause a scene on live airtime. Anyway, I’m sure you can all join me in welcoming Madeline to the team, and wishing her the best of luck. 

 

Also, a reminder that all announcements must be submitted _ under the door _ of the Piffling FM station. Messages tied to rocks and thrown through my window are, again, not eligible as announcements. Honestly, I despair this town’s ability to follow directions.

 

Now for our main news: I don’t like the new man across the square. 

 

As many of you know, we have a stranger in our midst — a “scientist” named Eric Chapman who is apparently here to study us. We, are apparently the most “interesting” “scientific” “community” in Great Britain, if that’s your kind of thing. I have little use for science, content as I am with radio, kettles, and the occasional smoke signals that rise just over the Piffling Forest, spelling messages like “ABANDON ALL HOPE” and “WHEN IS THE SAILING COMPETITION?”  _ Tuesday _ , Piffling Forest. It’s on  _ Tuesday _ . 

 

This Chapman appeared at our town council meeting last week, full of questions and alarmingly white teeth. I hated him instantly. 

 

Chapman announced that he would be setting up his lab right across the square, and had the gall to ask me if I could make an  _ announcement _ about it. I’m not afraid to tell you I read him to rights. “Now look here,” I said. “I’m a radio host, not your private secretary.” 

 

Chapman made some noises about “literally the point of the radio” which seemed very suspicious and shirty. I didn’t feel it necessary to engage with his spurious attempts at debate, given we were already running alarmingly behind schedule. 

 

At the end of the evening, Chapman told us to “enjoy ourselves,” which certainly sounds ominous. Clearly the rest of the town was won over by extra wafers and a smile like a gorgeous python, but I remain vigilant.

What does this man want with us? What is he planning?

 

I raised these very questions during this same town council meeting, which you all responded to in the normal way — by throwing pieces of paper at my head and kicking me. But, I will persevere! There must be something afoot, something simmering evilly underneath that sheen of sunshine tresses. As my father used to say, “Rudyard, what the hell are you doing.” So.

 

In other major news, the uranium mine is back again. Regular listeners might remember the appearance of the uranium mine from eighteen years ago, back when I was still PVPR’s only surviving intern. One day, the Piffing Flatlands were an uninterrupted streak of heath and bluegrass, a well-known sight to any Piffling Scout who has ventured out in order to earn their ‘bison handling’ badge. The next day, the Flatlands were almost entirely obscured by the hulking tower of a rusty and abandoned uranium mine, two dead seagulls resting at its iron gate. The mine hummed eerily, much like Antigone when she thinks she’s being productive. 

 

_ [scuffling and hissing] _

Ahem, yes, so. In the name of fearless journalism, my father ventured into the uranium mine, hoping to ask it about its intentions and whether it had a land permit. He was never seen again. 

Piffling Vale, I know that you join me in wondering: what does this mean for our town? 

 

And now, the obituaries!

 

_ Still waters run deep _ . Maybe on the surface, its seems like perfectly respectable water. Perhaps the waters seem quite charming and inquisitive, with the sunshine sparkling on it and a smile like a deadly Jesus. And yet, as you dip your feet into the water, beneath the surface churns the dastardly motives you suspected was there all along. You thrash, caught in the riptide of tidal force and your own folly. There is only the water now. 

 

So, rest in peace Sylvia Braithwaite. Really, this is what happens when you don’t wait forty-five minutes after eating. 

 

Finally — are you really sure about this?

 

_ [scuffling and hissing in the background] _

  
— with  _ great _ trepidation, I announce that my sister Antigone Funn has decided to rejoin the land of the living and become co-host of Piffling Vale Radio. Starting tomorrow, she will join me on air. May god have mercy on your souls. 


End file.
